


Something for the Journey

by AwkwardTiming



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brollylock Challenge, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardTiming/pseuds/AwkwardTiming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock asked a favour before he left. Mycroft obliged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something for the Journey

**Author's Note:**

> May need additional tags. Let me know!

In the end, it had been the one bit London he'd managed to take with him. Mycroft had been, well, not understanding but accepting of it. It had been a code between them for years that sentiment was a weakness. Not so much a warning against it as a reminder that safety came from the ability to acknowledge the existence and set it aside in favour of something more practical or more necessary.

If Sherlock had been surprised at his brother's willingness to part with it, well, he ignored the surprise. It was clearly not sentiment. Mycroft had explained that he could easily enough acquire a replacement and, given the magnitude of the task Sherlock had set himself, it was a small enough request. An incredibly idiosyncratic request, perhaps, but small nevertheless.

"Besides," Mycroft had said as he handed it to the casually clothed Sherlock after AFTER, "I can acquire another easily enough."

He couldn't of course. Even with all his connections, it wasn't something that could just be replaced. It wasn't particularly expensive or hard to find, but this one had been a gift from the other one. The brothers let the lie function as a truth as Sherlock gripped the handle, turned and strode away, the curved wood smooth in his palm, the black fabric neatly furled. 

Neither one acknowledged that, if Sherlock failed, Mycroft would be alone. No brothers remaining and no reminder of those he had had, once.

And now, a year in, in the middle of a desert, Sherlock dug a hole for the morning. He would have to bury it deep and hope he could hide it well, in part so that it would be here for him to retrieve it when he finished, if he was successful. And in part because if anyone found it here, more than his own life would be forfeit and everything he'd done would be for nothing. None of it would have mattered.

Finally satisfied, Sherlock made his way back toward the mouth of the cave to sleep for a few hours. He wasn't particularly tired and would not likely sleep well, but he needed to try. The next few weeks would take all his concentration and a year without proper rest or nourishment was beginning to take it's toll.

It was funny, he thought as he drifted bear sleep, that an inanimate object could take on such meaning. In the still hours of the night, he believed he could smell London in the smooth black cloth. That he could feel the grit of the streets. That somehow, in those folds, he could hear the rush if traffic. With the umbrella in his hand, he could imagine pavement instead of soft sand. Grey skies and rain instead of interminable heat and relentless sun. 

As he dozed, he burrowed into the umbrella, as he had years ago into red fur, pretending tomorrow would be better and that it would all be better soon.

\-----

"You're still not sleeping, brother mine."

Sherlock pretended not to hear and, for once, Mycroft did not push. Sherlock heard the door close and saw Mycroft emerge moments later onto London's dark streets and slide into the sleek black car waiting for him. Sherlock frowned then turned.

Waiting, by the door, was the umbrella. Sherlock felt the tension seep out of his frame, with its fading bruises and healing cuts. Even steps took him to the door. His hand hovered for a moment over the curved wood handle that, over two years, had become as familiar to him as his own skin. He slid his fingers over it and picked it up, the promise of rest, finally, hovering at the edges of his mind as he went to his room, umbrella in hand.


End file.
